Desecration Smile
by burden-of-proof
Summary: Tate Langdon has pretended to blend in with the sheep. That is, until Violet Harmon comes to town. dark!violate
1. Chapter 1

Tate reaches behind his bed, removes the falsified hinged wooden square, and takes the bag of coke he had been craving since he bought it off his dealer two days ago. With the cocksucker breathing down his neck all weekend, Tate felt he couldn't wipe his ass in peace, let alone snort a line or two. Yes, the bitch had been effectively coke-blocking him, but today was Monday and there was no fucking way he was going to school unless he was full of prime killing substances and could only see the world through a kaleidoscope view.

He was not satisfied. The last few years of his life replay in his head, a never changing tune filled with mediocrity, a humdrum sameness that was somehow perverse and bled into every detail of his life. He was becoming the stereotypical jock douche, and the worst part was he didn't know how to get out of it. The war that had existed for decades between him and the world was ongoing, but it seemed that for now he was losing. He snorts three lines, and rubs the excess on his gums. The coke returns to its hidey hole, and with it, Tate's sobriety.

He is flying. Untainted and untethered. There is a buzzing sensation prickling his entire body, and he feels every prick, from the back of his eyeballs to the tops of his ears. He feels it in the semi hardness of his cock.

Breakfast and the mandatory goodbye to his fucked up family is avoided by jumping out his bedroom window. He throws his bag, then dives feet first. He lands on the soft grass and continues with a roll that ends with him on his back. Looking out at his neighbor's house, a breath of giddiness escapes him, his parasympathetic system at work to return his body to homeostasis. Around him, , and in its place a girls face peaks out of the second story window. Long dirty blonde hair split in the middle covers an average looking, yet striking face with large brown eyes. An eyebrow is raised in a "what the fuck" fashion, and he is caught.

Transfixed. Mesmerized. Utterly and completely captivated.

And pissed off.

He doesn't know why, but something in him automatically wants to strangle her, squeeze the life out of that vivacious face. He senses her strength, and resents it.

His coked up state, and something else, something he attributes to her, causes him to make an obscene gesture at her.

His middle finger rises in a salute, and he whispers to her a mocking fuck you.

He knows she hears him, not through his voice, or even reading his lips, but by the aura his whole person radiates, the sneer on his face. A smirk dismisses him, and the oval face disappears into the darkness of the house.


	2. Chapter 2

Violet pulled back from the window and the not so interesting view of the rude stoned boy. She didn't let the fact he flipped her the bird bother her. Considering he jumped out a window, it wasn't hard to guess he was 24 cents short of a quarter. She left him to his perceived daydreaming, completely unaware of the lifelong enemy she had made with just one look.

She was dressed for the joke of a school her parents were making her attend. Westerfield. Home of the blazers. She felt a shudder of longing for her old school in New York. Sure, she was considered a loner, but it never bothered her. She reveled in the feeling of independence, the ability to look or feel any way she damned please, do what she wanted when she felt like it. For all her parents semi cloying ways, she had plenty of freedom and had definitely spread her non existent social butterfly wings in most of the underground scenes of Manhattan. Even if she wasn't well liked, at least she was somewhat respected for her inability to give a shit. A new school, new life. She knew her parents were grateful she had put up a minimal fuss in leaving, though they hadn't said a thankful word since she dropped her stuff in the airy, gothic hallway of the house. Violet had honestly made peace with leavening, under the naive impression that her parents were finally pushing through this awkward emotional bullshit and getting their lives back on track. Though she was an anarchist at heart, and totally against parental infringement, she was sick of sleeping to the soundtrack of her mother's tears. They were living in this fragile bubble in New York, this period of stasis that everyone knew had to give, yet everyone was content in ignoring. When her parents had approached her about leaving, there was a sense of determination around her parents that really had her believing cohabitating with them could be somewhat pleasant again. Unfortunately, it was a weak willed sentiment. In the week the Harmon family had moved in, her mother had checked out, usually high on xanax to cope with her husbands touch. Ben Harmon's large ego had taken an obvious dive, and he was usually trolling the streets searching for job openings. Most mornings Violet found Vivan in bed, staring at the macabre picture of Blue Baby, as she had dubbed him. Ben Harmon had taken a picture of Blue Baby, the second he had been delivered, ready to be treated to the angry, strong squalls of a healthy baby boy. Instead of cries and flying fists, silence greeted him when he met Blue Baby for the first umbilical cord had choked him, and his body was discoloured, a blue blob. Of course, Ben tried to get rid of the picture, but a heartbroken Vivian refused to lose the last link to her lost treasure. Shaking thoughts Blue Baby aside, Violet donned her bowl hat and jogged downstairs to make herself a bowl of cereal. She had gotten used to the kitchen, empty but for the unpacked boxes lying in corners. She thought as she ate, making plans for exploring more of Los Angeles that night.

Walking briskly, Violet sang along to Black hole sun, taking little lefts and rights that would let her explore the neighborhood on the way to school. It was a suburban purgatory. The sun was brightly shining on her back, giving everyone and everything a halo. She already missed the crisp fall that would have greeted her as she left the townhouse in New York. It had rained heavily the night before, and large, muddy puddles were seen near the sides of the road. She hummed and skipped over puddles, seeing the school two blocks ahead. A convertible suddenly swerved, hit a large puddle of water, and lightly spraying her with mud and dirty street water. She didnt catch the perpetrators, just the backs of a blond head and long, dark hair. She was pissed but couldn't bring herself to care that much. She wasn't sure of it was on purpose or just her customary shitty luck at work. Either way, no permanent harm was done, and she had dealt with far worse when she first came to New York City in middle school. She would easily wash the mud out of her hair and clean up her shirt, but most importantly, she wasn't going to lose her shit. No. Fucking. Way.


	3. Chapter 3

Tate Langdon leaned on the gazebo, watching his girlfriend Leah pull up into his old house's driveway. After entering the vehicle, he pours a substantial amount of coke on the dashboard. Watches Leah snort, watches her dead eyes stare into his, feels her tongue in his mouth. He fucking hates her. Loathes her conventionally pretty face, her upturned nose, her coke addicted body. He just waits patiently for the day he can off her and no one will notice. He has a reason he keeps her alive. She is his beard, his cover for the fact he was not all mentally present. As long as Leah got coke and an occasional good fucking, he is the god of Westerfield. Tate fucked his way to the top, and at Westerfield, Leah Callaghan was the top of the provincial iceberg. Captain of the volleyball team, cunning, and obviously beautiful, Leah owns everyone at school and she knows it. Of course, only a select few knew she was a cokehead, and that Tate was her dealer. They drive along the main road, some synthetic pop song blasting from the speakers. Tate looks out the window, imagining streets streaked copper from Leah's blood. Bliss. a glint of honey gold catches his eye. The same bitch from this morning is joyfully walking along the road, long maxi dress blowing in the wind, bowl hat perched precariously on her head, arms swinging. Her contentment is palpable, sickening. While he sits in a hot car, driving to his personal version of hell with the crabbiest bitch in Los Angeles, she is enjoying her Monday morning. Her vibrancy becomes an offense. He supposes he's jealous, and that's the reason he tells leah to splash the bitch. Leah, the demon always up to make someone suffer, swerves and miraculously manages to splash the cunt, despite her fucked up state. Her hyena laugh makes him regret even bothering, her suffering not worth the pain in his ears and the bitterness in his heart. "Why?" Leah asks. He doesn't need to ask what she means. Her being clever is what makes her an excellent bitch. "She pissed me off." He didn't give shit about her clothes. Tate didn't want to examine any part of why he was obsessing about a random bitch. He had Leah, granted she was an annoying gremlin, but if he gagged her and put a bag on her head he could probably stand her. If not Leah, who else at this shit school would he bother dipping his wick into? They park in the student parking lot, the spot that everyone wants and no one uses, unofficially reserved for Leah's car. Vanessa Deinard, Leah's best friend and co-slut, squeals and leans over Tate, stuffing her oversized d cups in his face, and embraces Leah in an insincere hug. He doesn't particularly want to suffocate this monday morning under Vanessa Deinards melons, and ducks under her roughly. Brandon Cavillio, Westfields quarterback, gives him the cliche hello every high school douchenozzle does, and then rambles on about some bitch he fucked over the weekend. He's gonna target her twin sister next weekend to compare and contrast their style and their performance of oral. Tate tries to reign in his anger like he has every fucking day for the past 3 years, but he feels today is harder for some reason. He wants to take a machine gun and shoot Brandon Cavillio until his body is riddled with holes like swiss cheese. He inhales deeply, resolves not to lose his shit no matter fucking what. "Pick the one that swallows," he jokes with a plastic grin, "golden rule."


End file.
